They always come to me

I don’t know how I got myself into this situation. I didn’t advertise on the internet (although back then it wouldn’t have existed) or in the newspaper or even discuss my availability too carelessly at a party. One thing’s for sure, parties are right out of the question now.
In the beginning, I tried to ignore the fact that anything had really changed for me and with hindsight, it was quite easy to do at that point. I remember going to a fancy dress party as a cat and anyone who didn’t already know me would never have guessed what had happened to me just three weeks before. After that, I began to be a little more circumspect and as a measure of the change taking place and for the sake of continuity in this analysis, I can tell you that I went to my next fancy dress party as a nun. The habit was quite forgiving and comforting and I was beginning to lose sight of the person I had been before; this single-minded, single-bodied feline form hell-bent on having a good time had been consumed by aliens.
Mostly they came to me in the night or the early hours; as if they would slip out unnoticed if the rest of the world was on hold. Often, their arrival was heralded by much thrashing around, heaving, cursing, dripping, gripping, writhing, seething, cursing, sweating, ripping, snipping, tearing, crying, wailing, puffing, pushing, prodding, searing, bleeding, slipping, squelching, sliding, wiping, padding, wrapping, sighing, crying, sleeping. Four times this happened. Three times it didn’t.
And there they are, my seismic creations laid out around me on a circular map on which I am plotted as its epicentre. They always come to me in times of trouble. Is it too late to become a nun?